


Tom & Gladys

by Miellat_II



Category: Original Work
Genre: (i love that it's a real kink), (that's a real kink), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Author is Self-Projecting for Therapy, Corruption Kink, Enemas, Fat positive characters, Fat positive narrative, Feeding Kink, Fertility Issues, Getting Over Really Bad Internalised Slut-Shaming Using No-means-yes, High Heels Kink, Intersex Character using 'she' pronouns, Jewish Character, Kinky marrieds flirting, Lingerie Kink, Mild anxiety about weight but it's comforted immediately, Mild gaining kink if you squint or are sensitive, Mutual Somniphilia, NO Rank dysphoria, No-means-Yes Kink, Other, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Realistic Inflation, Realistic Pussy Enlargement via Suction, Romance, Smeared makeup kink, Traditional Fifties Household D/s, Vague allusions to Gladys being a survivor of abuse/assault, Villain/Damsel Role-Play, Voice Kink, little bit of self-image anxiety, loving relationship, medical fetish, mention of being treated shittily by doctors, no dysphoria of any kind, role-play, somniphilia, trans male child character, trouble conceiving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-06-22 04:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19660060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miellat_II/pseuds/Miellat_II
Summary: This is incredibly personal, please keep that in while you are reading and commenting. I know I write smut and it's a lot of fun; and while all my work is pretty dang personal (it's hard for smut not to be), this one in particular isexceedinglyso.If it isn't obvious from the language, they're English—though I am not (yet!), so the setting overall is going to seem like an odd surreal mix of English language and dialectical English, and a very American sort of sensibility. I don't apologise for this, I did it on purpose, to obfuscate both the time and location of the story. I kind of picture it taking place in some idealised place that has the best of both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is incredibly personal, please keep that in while you are reading and commenting. I know I write smut and it's a lot of fun; and while all my work is pretty dang personal (it's hard for smut not to be), this one in particular is _exceedingly_ so. 
> 
> If it isn't obvious from the language, they're English—though I am not (yet!), so the setting overall is going to seem like an odd surreal mix of English language and dialectical English, and a very American sort of sensibility. I don't apologise for this, I did it on purpose, to obfuscate both the time and location of the story. I kind of picture it taking place in some idealised place that has the best of both.

Gladys was perfectly happy being an Omega. Her husband, Tom, was a very gentle Alpha, who worked with the public health department’s school outreach programme, monitoring the growth of children, making sure they all had their shots, and were generally healthy. Gladys was very proud of him, and it pained her to not be able to have any children, though Tom never made much of it. They had a large black cat that Gladys referred to as their son, and was very fond of, building a little conservatory for him so that he could go outside without the danger of getting lost or hurt. Tom was fond of the cat too, and often picked him up as soon as he got home, carrying him about as the cat purred.

Springtime was a time for heat, and while Tom’s were healthy, occurring like clockwork every Solstice, Gladys was not usually so regular, sometimes never going fully into œstrus at all, due to the condition that also made her infertile. Tom had since started to try and help his wife to find treatment, searching tirelessly for doctors that specialised in such things, and starting to realise the reasons his wife’s reluctance and resignation when Tom observed first-hand that there weren’t very many doctors who understood what his wife was going through.

‘Just put her on the birth-control pill, she’ll be fine,’ was a common refrain, ignoring the fact that the pills didn’t do anything but make his wife’s depression worse. Tom was furious after the fifth doctor they’d tried, and had to excuse himself to go count to ten and calm down, after the visit. Gladys sat quietly in the car while he walked around the back of it, her shoulders tense and unhappy. Tom reached over and gently patted her hand, after getting back into the driver’s seat.

‘We’ll figure this out, love,’ he said softly, taking pains to make sure none of his anger escaped toward his wife. ‘I’m not angry _with_ you, I’m angry _for_ you. These doctors ought to know what’s going on, they ought to have studied enough. It’s—it’s _lazy_ , is what it is! And you, poor love, having to deal with _that_ sort of nonsense all your life…. I’m so sorry, I didn’t understand; I’m starting to, now. How about,’ he said, forcing a little cheer into his voice, ‘we go and get you some cake.’

He’d noticed Gladys fretting and struggling a little more with her self-image, especially the more weight she put on—even though she’d been _trying_ to put on weight—and Tom wanted to make sure Gladys knew that her husband was fully in support of her enjoying herself, and enjoying food, and that Tom was _quite_ enjoying her growing belly, her softening limbs. Omegas were _supposed_ to be fat, Tom thought; regardless of the betaist beauty standard and omegaphobia that had cropped up in recent years.

‘You know what,’ said Gladys, ‘yes, do _let’s_ have some cake. I deserve cake,’ she said quietly, to herself.

‘You do deserve cake,’ Tom agreed. ‘Have I mentioned you’re getting more beautiful by the day?’ He knew he had, but he wanted to take both their minds off of things.

‘Possibly,’ Gladys teased.

‘Hmm, only _possibly_ , I must be slipping,’ Tom said gravely, and the most beautiful sound in the world replied to this: his wife’s laughter.

‘You really don’t mind that I’m... I’m getting bigger?’

‘I enjoy it,’ Tom said, and out of the corner of his eye, saw Gladys squirm a little, scented her arousal—it was quiet, but Tom had gained a very sensitive nose for it, used to his wife’s body, and how erratic and weak her scent was. It was still beautiful.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘I shall buy you _two_ slices of cake, in fact, because I like it so much.’

‘I don’t think I can _finish_ two,’ Gladys said, as they pulled up to their favourite bakery, which was run by a very nice family of four, and specialised in the very rich, fiddly sorts of pastries that take hours to make and are so delicate or dense that one feels entirely like one has consumed an aphrodisiac.

‘You will,’ said Tom, and Gladys bit her lip, glancing aside at her husband.

‘Dear,’ she said, ‘are you intending to _feed me_?’

‘To _bursting_ ,’ Tom said, and kissed Gladys’ cheek before getting out of the car. ‘I’ll be right back, darling!’ he called, knowing full well Gladys would have a little trouble after such a flirtation, and knowing that Gladys would be quietly simmering with arousal by the time Tom got back in the car. Tom knew what to order—they’d been going to this bakery since their wedding, and Gladys always ordered one of half a dozen things.

‘One flourless chocolate cake, please, Miss May,’ Tom told the omega at the register. May put it in a pink box for him, knowing the couple well enough to always choose the pink box over the white one, and even used some of the curling ribbon, thinking it was a special occasion. ‘Thank you, Miss May,’ Tom said, and May giggled.

‘You two enjoy that,’ she said. Tom gave her a rather mischievous smile.

‘Oh, we will,’ he said, and her giggle was more intense as he left, the bell jingling merrily behind him.

Back in the car, Gladys was having her own quiet argument with her thoughts, looking down at her belly and shifting about, trying to see it from different angles, but always coming back to the one where she felt like it was huge and not soft enough to be pretty. Where were her hips? Wasn’t she supposed to have bigger hips? _But Tom thinks I’m getting prettier with every new pound or inch,_ she reminded herself firmly. Still, the thoughts were rather tenacious, and not a little frightening.

Her husband came back with a cake box that was far too big for just one or two slices of cake, and put it in Gladys’ lap, starting the car.

‘Is this an _entire_ cake, Tom?’

‘Yes it is, my love,’ Tom said, backing out of the parking space. ‘Don’t worry, I want some too; but I want you to have cake tomorrow, and the next day, too, so that you remember I love you, and think you’re the most beautiful omega in the whole world.’

‘I shall be ill,’ Gladys said, unsure and slightly teasing.

‘We can give you a nice, warm, _big_ enema of medicine, if you’re ill,’ Tom said, in that soft, insouciant voice he used when he was talking about something that made Gladys squirm with arousal. ‘Don’t worry about this fertility mess any more today, Gladys,’ he said reassuringly, then carried on with a firm tone that sparkled with flirtation beneath, ‘If you do, I shall be forced to give you a great many orgasms.’

‘Oh, no,’ Gladys said, smiling, ‘anything but that, Tom, please.’

‘I shall,’ he said, ‘I shall stretch out your arse and give you a very large enema, and pump your lovely pussy until you calm down.’

‘No, no, please,’ Gladys faux-protested, her petticoats only making her body’s flush feel warmer, her satin panties soaked through.

‘I shall, unless you finish two slices of cake as soon as we get home.’

‘As you wish, husband,’ Gladys conceded, then added, in a playful whisper, ‘may I still have you stretch out my arse and give me a very large enema, and pump my lovely pussy?’

‘We-ell, I don’t know,’ Tom teased, pulling into the latticed driveway of their little tract home, which Gladys and Tom had made a cheerful lilac, that was much complimented by the neighbours, and went with the flowers and herbs Gladys grew instead of a lawn.¹ He pulled into the garage, and opened the door for his wife, taking the cake and then her hand, helping her from the car, knowing from experience how difficult it was to get out of a car in heels as high as he liked Gladys to wear.²

They went inside, and were greeted immediately by the black cat, his collar jingling as he bounded up to greet them, tail high in the air and shaking as he chirruped and paced about their feet, his purr audible. Gladys knelt down to pick him up, putting him on her shoulder, his paws kneading at the air, he rubbing his face on any part of her he could reach, as she scratched behind his ears. Tom scratched under his chin, and they both moved to the kitchen, Gladys depositing the cat on a stool that they had designated as his, so that he wouldn’t jump on the counter. Tom put the cake box on the counter, while Gladys went to the knife-block. More fashionable kitchens might have had a magnetic strip, but Tom knew those frightened his wife, after what had caused Tom to be her _second_ husband.

‘You cut it, darling; I shall get plates,’ she said, and kissed him, leaving a red lipstick print on his cheek.

‘I should like you to see it first, before I ruin Lady Madison’s fine work.’ Lady Madison was the alpha that ran the bakery, along with her two betas, Ira and Jane, and her omega, May. Lady wasn’t her title, it was her name—but everyone called her Lady Madison all the same, and respectfully at that. She was that sort of alpha.

The cake itself, once Tom unfolded the box and revealed it, was decorated with ganache and chocolate shavings, and, in the centre, a _very_ artfully arranged trio of tiny strawberries, their natural caps removed and replaced with some made of marzipan. Two hearts drawn in white chocolate ganache trailed ribbons that draped around the sides, and it was very obviously a cake made for lovers. Gladys sighed adoringly.

‘It is _so_ beautiful,’ she said, ‘I almost can’t ruin it by eating it.’

‘But we can’t ruin it by _not_ eating it, either,’ Tom said. ‘Go on and take a photo, we’ll preserve the memory that way.’

After she was satisfied with a photo, he cut them both a slice, and put one of the strawberries on his, and the other two on hers, knowing how much she liked strawberries. They ate the first slice pretending they had not been flirtatiously planning moments before.

‘Oh, it’s so rich,’ Gladys said, as she finished the last bite of hers, but she was smiling, waiting for Tom to put another one on her plate. He did not disappoint, and she watched him even as he went over to the fridge, and got out some whipped cream, putting it on top of the second slice before returning her plate to her, and sitting across the little half-circle kitchen table by the windows.

‘Are you full?’ Tom asked, with a cattish smile that Gladys loved seeing curl his full lips.

‘So _very_ full,’ Gladys admitted in a whisper, feigning distress, thrilling at the play of it.

‘Good,’ Tom said, wickeder by the syllable; Gladys could see him putting on a character. ‘Have another bite,’ he said, in a silken murmur, eyes somehow seeming greener than usual. Gladys loved his eyes—they were brown-green hazel, and usually warm and brownish most of the time. Most of the time; but sometimes, like now, they went very green, indeed.

‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Gladys said, as she felt the fullness of her belly, the tingle of having just eaten something rich and sweet. She _was_ full; but she fully intended to enjoy the distress of the second slice—under pretend duress, of course.

‘You _can_ possibly,’ he said, in that same velvety, smoky voice, his eyes like a cat’s, as he pushed the plate toward her.

She took a bite, making sure to moan and tilt her eyebrows up, even as she enjoyed it thoroughly.

‘ _Good_.’

Gladys _loved_ that voice, and her pussy remembered very well what it meant, twitching hungrily as she took another bite, and another, each one rewarded with more of that purring praise. Her noises of “distress” grew, little squeaks and moans.

‘ _Good_ omega, that’s it.’ The familiar praise slid off his tongue almost automatically, ‘one… last… bite.’

Gladys eyed the last forkful of chocolate and cream as though it were going to kill her, hardly able to keep from squirming in her chair at the feeling of her stomach, overfull of richness; she could imagine it _shivering_ with the same arousal coiled in her belly as she closed her lips around it, removed the fork, pressed the cake against the roof of her mouth with her tongue, the taste of the last bite just as magnificent and luxurious as the first bite had been.

‘Gooood,’ he said, wicked as ever, and smirked. ‘Now,’ he said, standing and offering his hand; she took it, standing up again and pretending it took effort. He led her by the hand, out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the hall, shutting the pocket door behind him so that the cat couldn’t follow. The hallway was dark, and quiet, her heels making no noise on the aqua carpet, as she walked ahead of him.

‘I’m going to pump your lovely pussy first,’ he said, and she felt shivers down her spine. ‘That way, when I fill you up with a nice, big, _hot_ enema, I’ll be able to make you _like it.’_

Gladys whimpered, biting her lip; she liked enemas anyway, but they felt so forbidden to like, and she was ever so glad to play the game they did, where she pretended to hate them, where Tom helped her cleverly outwit her own shame so that she could enjoy herself. ‘Oh—oh you—you _villain_!’ she said, pretending to cry.

‘I am that,’ he said, and she privately _squealed_ in delight at it, as he opened not the door at the end of the hall, which held their bedroom; but the door on the right side, which led to the office, which had a narrow but very long padded bench on it, coated in plastic, that they used for all sorts of things. The office was decorated in green and yellow, Tom’s colours.

He did not push her, or throw her down; he knew his wife very well, and knew that despite her love of this game, she was a survivor of a great many violent attacks, and did not like _that_ sort of villain. She liked _gentleman_ villains.

‘Sit down,’ he said, and she whimpered, but obeyed, sitting slowly down on the chaise, then laying down. ‘Goood omega, good. Now, lay down on your back.’

Gladys felt very sure her _petticoats_ were damp, at this point, and her inner thighs felt sticky too; she obeyed, and made each exhale make a tiny sound, watching him.

‘Good omega,’ he said, and went over to the closet, sliding it open and retrieving the pump, and its cup. It was one he’d built himself, and the cup was fitted to her pussy exclusively. He put them on the wheeled trolley that they kept in the room for just such a purpose, and wheeled over on the work-stool after positioning the trolley by her.

‘You mustn’t,’ she protested, very quietly, as he lifted her petticoats. ‘I’m a good girl.’

‘You are,’ he said, ‘that’s why we must _corrupt_ you.’

‘No!’ she cried, as he bared her pink panties, which had a very dark wet spot on them. He lifted a perfectly-shaped brow, and Gladys’ heart fluttered. He was so beautiful.

‘Your pussy seems to think otherwise.’

Gladys whimpered, as his fingertips slid over the wet satin, sparking pleasure to burn a trail behind them. He took them off her, and set them neatly on the trolley’s highest shelf, watching as she pressed her naked thighs together, trying to hide a pussy that he kept shorn just as smooth as the satin, flushed red and wet, her rather large clit just visible at the join of her labia.

‘Oh, and what a _gorgeous_ pussy for it,’ he whispered, and snapped on a black latex glove. Gladys’ clit twitched at the sound of it, and Tom gave that Villainous laugh, watching as her clit twitched again at the snap of the second one. ‘Spread your legs, my precious virgin,’ he ordered, as he drizzled lubricant on his gloved hand. ‘That’s it,’ he said, when she obeyed, her stocking-clad legs up and apart, baring every part of herself. When he spread the lubricant on her, it was warm from his hands, and he coated her thoroughly as she sobbed and whimpered and twitched.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, holding up the cup. She did, of course, but she shook her head, looking fearful. He lowered it, and she felt it slowly pressing to her pussy, and anticipated the suction, holding so still she wasn’t sure she was even daring to breathe.

‘This,’ he said, and turned the pump on. She started to whimper as the suction increased steadily, ‘is a suction pump,’ he said, over her rising wails. He turned it quite high, and admired her pussy fogging the clear cup, then pressing, red as blood was sucked to surface. When it had reached the setting they both knew was her limit, it stopped, maintaining the suction. Her wails quieted to whimpers and sniffling pants. She was such a good actress, he thought admiringly. ‘And you’ll stay like that,’ he said, with a tone of finality, ‘until the enlargement is _permanent_.’

‘No,’ she cried. ‘No, no, please.’

‘And then,’ he went on, ‘you’ll remember, I shall be stretching your little arse, and filling you up.’

‘Mercy!’

‘And when I’m done doing that,’ he said, ‘I think I might _have_ to fuck you.’

She couldn’t come, they knew that; it made the delight of anticipation so much better for it. She _cried_ , really cried, and it helped (as crying always does). He disposed of his gloves and stroked her hair through it.

‘That’s it,’ he would say, ‘that’s it, cry for me, that’s a good omega.’

When she stopped, he went to the bookshelf to get a book, sat down at the foot of the bench, so he could keep an eye on her pussy, and read, keeping another eye on the clock, until fifteen minutes had passed. She could feel her pulse in her pussy now, thumping harder with every minute, and yet her pussy had also gone somewhat numb. She knew that would soon change, as he disengaged the pump motor, and gently prised the cup loose. Her whimper turned to a whine as the tingling sensation turned harsh and prickling, cold-hot.

‘Oh, what a picture,’ he said, and took one. ‘Would you like to see, my treasure?’

He showed her, and she felt a flush of pride in her cheeks, seeing her pussy all plump and shiny, oversized and unnaturally gorged.

‘Now,’ he said, and stood, offering his hand. ‘Stand up.’ His eyes were so _wicked_ as he said it, Gladys felt a noise rise in her chest as her pussy twitched, and felt so much _more_ because of it. Shaking, she took his hand, and stood, making much show of what she was feeling—standing up, her plush thighs pressed together, her petticoats fell back down, and her pussy was _tormented_ by all of it.

‘Upright,’ he urged, ‘we still have to walk to the bath to get filled.’

They had an enema attachment in the shower, and Tom had fitted it with the finest and most thorough of filters, so that nothing but water itself would get through the nozzle. She also knew the nozzle he would use—the large one, she hoped, that inflated both inside and outside; or, perhaps, he’d use the long one, that reached very deep inside, so that he could fill more than her rectum, make her belly bulge outward and heavy—he’d fit a gallon inside her before, and it was a fond memory.

Her stomach still felt full, but it would wane soon enough. Unless he meant to feed her more cake as she was being filled? There were so many possibilities, she was doing as good a job torturing her pussy as every step he urged her forward, her skirts rustling and his voice in her ear the only sounds, other than her breathy cries.

Her heels clicked on the pink tiles of the bathroom floor, and the enema hose gleamed wickedly in the bathroom light.

‘Bend over, precious; hands on the rail, there,’ he said, meaning the rail at the back of the tub wall, which they’d put in for just this purpose. It wasn’t the ugly, industrial steel she knew from places she’d rather not remember—it was pink, like the rest of the bathroom. Her favourite colour somehow made everything seem… more wicked, in contrast. She felt him lift her skirts, baring her bottom.

‘Spread your legs, my sweet,’ he said, so very politely, and she did. ‘Good, good,’ he said, ‘that’s perfect, treasure.’

She heard the snap of gloves, the sounds of him getting the lubricant again, and felt his warm fingers slide all over the ringed muscle of her anus, pressing, massaging… and then his other hand started to stroke her clit, sliding down, searching slowly, carefully for that spot that made her utterly relax, even if she didn’t want to. She moaned when he found it, and he chuckled wickedly in reply.

‘Take a deep breath in, and push me out as hard as you can when you exhale. In… and…’

She pushed, and knew it would only make him sliding in much easier, and couldn’t tense, his caress at her clit making that impossible. She could only make the tiniest noises, little huffing squeaks, as he patiently stretched her open, toying with her clit the whole time.

‘What a good omega you’re being,’ he teased. ‘You were made for this, weren’t you, my dear?’

‘Y-yes,’ she said, and it was the signal that he had finally defeated her shame. ‘Yes.’ She felt him working in the plug.

‘All the same,’ he said, and she felt—and heard—him begin to expand the inner balloon of it, stretching her inside. ‘I don’t trust that you’ll be able to hold in everything I’m about to force into you.’

She whimpered, tightening her grip on the rail. He was expanding the outer balloon, now, and took down the enema hose, turning on the water.

‘Ninety-nine degrees,’ he said, and switched the water’s flow, though it wasn’t going into her, not yet; he’d make her wait, first. He liked the anticipation. ‘That’s going to feel _very_ hot, indeed, my flower. I think I shall stuff you with a gallon, and see where that takes us.’

A small noise emerged utterly without Gladys’ knowledge or permission.

‘And don’t think you’ll just be standing like _that_ the whole time; oh my, no,’ he said, stripping off his gloves. ‘You still need to get undressed, so I can admire the _bulge_ of that little belly properly.’ He turned the lever, and Gladys gave him the theatrical wail that sort of build-up warranted, feeling the water flow, just a little too warm, into her. She _loved_ it, and had to bite her lip, worrying the rail, unable to quite help the smile on her face.

‘And you can’t help enjoying it now, _can_ you, my little kitten? Even now, the drug in the water is affecting you.’

There was, of course, no drug in the water; but it was fun to pretend that’s what was making her turn from resistant virgin to needy slut. It was one of Gladys’ favourite pretends, the idea that she was being forced into heat, into slutty behaviour, by something other than her own will. It let her _enjoy_ it.

‘No…’ she said, weaker, ‘I… I shouldn’t….’

‘No,’ he said, grinning, ‘you shouldn’t. But you _are_ , aren’t you? By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be _ruined_.’

‘Nnnn,’ she said, the water flowing steadily faster, she felt so full…

‘Stand up, my sugar, I want this dress off of you.’ Tom knew how much Gladys loved being in just her underwear and shoes—from her padded bra to her girdle and petticoat, to the full-fashion stockings, she loved her fripperies—and _he_ loved seeing her in them, especially like this. He helped her to stand, steadied her while he unzipped the dress in the back, and helped her pull it off over her head, mindful of her hair, which took quite a while every morning. Her lipstick was already off from the cake, only the outline from her lip-pencil in place, and her mascara was smudged from her crying; he gently wiped the mess of that latter away.

‘Go fix your makeup.’ He knew the hose was long enough, he’d made sure of that when he’d put it in.

Breathing shallowly, she went to the cabinet over the sink, across the bathroom, fixed her lipstick and reapplied her mascara. Tom knew the water would be pressing uncomfortably against her girdle, now; he could see her belly firming outward beneath the pink mesh, despite this.

‘Take off your petticoat.’

She did, putting it on the counter by the sink, the bright pink chiffon rustling pleasantly.

‘Stand there, let me watch,’ he said, and leaned in the doorway, watching her pussy twitch, the flush of it, framed by her thighs, creamy and flushed pink. Her nylons shone in the light, and they and her garters framed her pussy so perfectly. ‘You beautiful creature,’ he sighed, and meant every word.

He kept an eye on the meter, it was climbing to two quarts already.

‘How do you feel, pet?’ he asked.

‘Full,’ she said.

‘Can you take any more?’

‘Please,’ she said, and he knew she loved the ambiguity of the phrase—was she asking ‘please _no’_ or ‘please _do’_? But he knew which it was—she could lie to her shame and say it was ‘please _no_ ’, of course; but it _was_ a lie, and one she told it often.

‘I think you _can_ ,’ he said, and kept watching. She put hands on her own belly, but didn’t dare touch her pussy. He watched her fill, and fill, and fill; and was proud of her when the meter read that she’d taken just about a gallon into herself. Setting the temperature warmer always let her take in more. He turned the lever, and turned of the water, and went over to detach her from the machine. ‘ _There_ we go,’ he said, standing behind her. ‘Isn’t that nice and _full_ , pet?’

She nodded shakily with a noise of assent, and he put his hands over hers, on her belly. Her girdle was about to fail, and he loved the look of that, the bulging around the hooks.

‘Let’s take this off,’ he said, and started to undo the hooks. She squeaked at each one, and Tom undid them first the topmost, then the bottommost, and alternating, so she would have no true relief until he undid the last one in the very middle. Her belly bowed out, no more soft but stretched taut and firm.

‘Open your eyes, my sugar,’ he whispered, looking at her in the mirror right by the tub. ‘Look at yourself, look how big your belly is.’ He did not say ‘pregnant’, even though he was thinking it; it would be cruel, a little too close to why she liked this particular kink.

‘Oh,’ she sighed. He kissed her cheek.

‘Now,’ he gestured to the door with one arm. ‘To the bedroom. I’m going to press on that beautiful belly while I fuck you, until you feel orgasm will make you burst.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹This had quite angered the Home Owners Association; until Gladys and Tom made a presentation at a meeting proving that a lawn was unfriendly to animals and the environment, and besides which was _wasteful,_ detailing the uses for each of the plants they had planted in place of grass. The other neighbours had so much been moved that now, _everyone_ was trying to eliminate at least some of their lawn, and replace it with nicer things like herbs, or flowers that attracted butterflies and hummingbirds—welcome beautifications to any garden. No one, however, had taken up dandelions with quite as much enthusiasm as had Gladys. {up}
> 
>   
> ²Tom did not believe in asking Gladys to wear or do anything without trying it on himself first, to know how much she suffered—and besides which, he still did theatre as a hobby, after having done it both up at school and at university.{up}
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
>  Trivia   
>    
> 
> 
> \- The school outreach programme is based on the school programme for children that operated via the Public Health Department in the fifties in the US. Doctors and nurses would come to schools to give children wellness checkups right at school. Truly, my parents lived in a blessed time of socialised medicine. You can learn more about it from [this cartoon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ESmHv2h50s), which came out when my grandfather was all of 18 (and he probably saw it, too).
> 
> \- 'just put her on the birth-control pill...' is something i have been told by doctors. Gladys' condition is basically me writing about my experiences with having a hormonal syndrome which I strongly consider an intersex condition, as it has to do with your sex hormones not being in the right way, and therefore causes infertility and a host of other issues. Being intersex is so incredibly poorly-understood and plagued by sexism that most of the literature still insists that sufferers of my condition are female, and treatment only consists of trying different BC Pills one by one (there are _hundreds_ of them), until one 'works'—which does nothing to solve the infertility, of course. This whole story is wish-fulfillment therapy.
> 
> \- The layout of the house is based on the layout of my childhood home, a kit house from 1950 that is, sadly, no longer extant. When I first moved into this house, it was a time-capsule, and that memory is what Tom and Gladys' house looks like—with a few aesthetic changes, because I love pink bathrooms.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom was thinking on next steps, as Gladys went to clean up in the bathroom, and Tom stripped the pink sheets of their bed (so chosen because the pink complimented their skin tones perfectly), put them in the small hamper in their room, went and got new ones from the linen closet just outside their door, in the hall. This latest doctor had failed to have the right attitude, had nearly made his wife cry with his almost manic interrogation _and_ his ‘you mean you haven’t had it removed, yet?’, which was rather galling, especially given how hard Gladys had worked to accept her uterus in a world telling her it was The Enemy, _and_ given that _he_ had been a _male **alpha**_ , and given that Gladys was, of course, trying to get _pregnant_. Chauvinistic ignoramus, Tom thought, poisonously, as he tucked in the new set of olive-green sheets (which made Gladys look so beautiful). Well, Gladys seemed much more cheerful for having had some cake and orgasms, and Tom always felt better after pampering her with kink and sweets, too.

He tidied up their bedroom a bit, and went into his office again, and across it to the little half bathroom, which was done all in a jade-ish green, including the sink, bidet, and commode, and tidied up himself, before taking the toys they’d used in a basket up the back hall and into the kitchen, washing them off and putting the pieces that could be in the dishwasher to be sanitised. As he shut the dishwasher, he smiled to himself, remembering how excited Gladys had been to find one in exactly the shade of pink she wanted—not too cool, not too pale, not too brown. Goldilocks Pink, Tom had started calling it. Gladys always giggled and blushed when he said it, as she loved fairy tales—and loved making them erotic.

What were they going to do? Tom looked at the list of doctors on the fridge, all of the gynaecologists and fertility specialists in the entire region, half of them crossed off. Maybe it was because of the juxtaposition of the list, so soon after such a satisfying scene; maybe it was that Tom had the clear-headedness he always felt after knotting in his omega; whatever it was, he suddenly started connecting dots he hadn’t, and snatched the list, almost ripping it up, before thinking better of it, folding it up and slipping it in the pocket of his shirt. He took the kitchen phone off the hook and flipped through the rolodex, dialling a number and waiting, sitting in the chair he’d only recently vacated an hour ago. The cat leapt up on his lap, and Tom welcomed him, and his purr.

_‘Patisserie Parfait, this is Amy, how may I help you?’_

‘Miss Amy, it’s Tom Harland, I wonder if I could speak to Lady Madison for a few minutes.’

_‘Yes, one moment, please,’_

The phone was set down, and when it was picked up, Lady Madison’s low, smooth voice greeted him.

_‘Hello, this is Lady Madison.’_

‘This is Tom Harland, I wonder if you can give me some advice. You, er, you have so many in your household, and I thought maybe you’d know how to help us.’

_‘Is this really a conversation for the telephone? Shall I come by, perhaps this evening?’_

Tom considered it, checking the calendar Gladys kept by the phone, marked all over in many different colours of pen, in tidy print writing down not only appointments and birthdays but everything else about her and Tom’s schedule, helpfully colour-coded. That evening was bare, but Tom knew Gladys liked at least a day to prepare for visitors.

‘Can I come over there instead?’ he asked.

_‘Yes, of course. Come along a little after closing, we’ll have a bit of coffee while the betas lock up.’_

Tom said his goodbyes and hung up the phone, seeing Gladys in the doorway to the back hall, wrapped in her pink bathrobe, her hair up in a matching towel.

‘Who was that?’ she asked.

‘Lady Madison,’ Tom said. ‘I thought she might have some advice for us. I… I don’t know, she just… seems quite worldly.’

Gladys smiled at him, coming across the kitchen and touching his cheek tenderly. ‘Dear Tomcat,’ she sighed, and kissed him. She loved how he was never afraid of being honest, of showing that he didn’t know everything all of the time. She loved it so much she always felt aroused when he did it, and yet it was always a pleasant surprise when he said, ‘I don’t know’. She nestled in his arms for a while, knowing she was a little damp, and not minding that they were in the kitchen.

‘I don’t know what she might say, of course,’ Tom went on, ‘but she’s got such a _large_ household, and she’s so marvellous with the omegas at the club.’

Ah, yes, Gladys thought, The Club. Lady Madison and Tom were both members of a very special sort of club, one that Gladys had never been to, though she would have been welcomed. Gladys, however, was too shy, too private. It seemed rather a marvellous fantasy, but too much had happened for the reality to be possible, at least for her. Tom went, and by all accounts learned a great deal more about how to please his omega from it. Lady Madison was not the only one who lead instructional demonstrations there, but she was widely regarded as the _best_. Gladys was happy to not go, and to leave it as Tom’s territory, and benefit from what he learned from his fellow alphas.

Tom smiled at her as they ended the kiss, ‘That was nice,’ he commented, ‘shall we do it again?’

She giggled; it was something he said so often, including at their wedding (much to the fond chagrin of Tom’s rabbi, who knew his antics of old). She looked up at him with her eyes sparkling. ‘I don’t know, Alpha,’ she teased, ‘shall we?’

This time, _he_ kissed _her_ , and was perhaps a little more heated than usual, as it was spring and nearing the equinox. He didn’t slam her around like alphas in film, though—Tom had always valued self-control in an alpha, it was why he admired Lady Madison so much. He was even gentler, slower than usual, even if his animal instincts were screaming at him to do otherwise. He defied them purposely, and wrapped his arms around his omega, burying his face in her neck and smelling her, all clean and lovely and warm—and _happy_. She wrapped her arms around him and they stood together for a few moments, but Tom knew standing was not something Gladys could do very long, and swept her off her feet gently, slowly, so as not to surprise her too much, carrying her into the dining room, then left across the tiny foyer to the front room, which served as both living and family room, depositing her on the loveseat in front of the fireplace, and continuing to kiss her.

She hummed, giving back as warm and tender as she got, her hand running through his hair. When they paused for air and banter, she looked up at him, pupils wide and lips flush.

‘I love when you take your hair down,’ she said, and he blushed, but answered rakishly enough.

‘And I’d love to take yours out of that towel.’

‘Never,’ she said, predictably—Gladys always kept her hair tightly wrapped up, believing that was the best way to preserve the curl, and give her hair body. She thought her hair was too thin at the very top and front, after one of the hormone treatments she’d been pressured into by her ex-husband, and so she hated seeing her hair wet, or dirty.

Tom left her to do her rituals, aware they were important to her, even if he didn’t see them as necessary—Tom thought she had beautiful hair, all in dark natural curls that were only just barely threaded with a few white strands. She’d started growing it out some years ago, and it was almost to her hips, now. Tom loved to braid it for her, pin it up for her, and she loved that he let her braid his own golden hair, the colour of wildflower honey. She’d gotten much better at braiding, in the years she’d been with Tom.

‘What did you want to ask Lady Madison?’ Gladys asked, leaning against him.

‘If she knew any way to help you that didn’t rely on birth-control pills, or hormone shots, or… invasive things like that.’

‘It’s a long shot,’ Gladys said, ‘but you can ask, I don’t mind. I like Lady Madison,’ she said, and her tone was so quiet and she squirmed in a particular way… Tom raised his brows, not moving much, just looking over at where she was leaning against him, her feet tucked up, as much as they could be with her legs having gotten so deliciously chubby. Still, he didn’t poke, or tease, about whatever pash she may have on Lady Madison; she would tell him when she was ready—he knew well the pleasure from keeping a pash private for a while.

‘What’s for dinner, precious?’ he asked, kissing her temple.

‘Hmm,’ Gladys said, getting up, unselfconsciously walking across the house, naked but for the towel on her head and the little marabou heels she used as slippers. As he heard her start cooking, Tom went to get changed for dinner. He liked the little rituals of lost generations—much like Gladys, herself—and enjoyed the compartmentalising that changing for this, having different shoes for that, did for one’s life. He had work shoes, and he took them off as soon as he came home, and exchanged them for slippers or penny loafers. It was a comforting every-day magic (as Gladys would call it), that reinforced a different role, and a different attitude. Tom’s job had been rather prone to intruding on his private life, in the past—it was one of the reasons he had taken theatre classes at university.

The crackle of capsicum sautéing in butter, the scent of it, warm and comforting, wafted through the house, as he got ready, tying on one of his nicer ties—too expressive for work, this one had seahorses on it, a favourite animal of Tom’s—before putting on the waistcoat and tightening the laces just so, before getting on a jacket and going into the kitchen, to see his omega feeling a little flirtatious, still with her hair wrapped up, an apron on over her lusciously naked body. Tom didn’t worry about the neighbours seeing her through the windows—they had decoratively-faceted film over the windows for privacy, and Tom could admire her body in the fading light of the long summer twilight as she bustled around the kitchen.

For all intents and purposes, she _looked_ fertile; that was the most disconcerting thing to them both. Gladys had a solid grounding in science, she knew what she had was nothing to do with how wide her hips were, or how large her chest had been, or anything else. But there was also not enough information anywhere on attractiveness science to help her understand what was going on, and so she was stuck confused, which was not something Gladys tolerated well. Part of their search for fertility was a search for _answers_ , because they both were exactly the sort to adopt children when they wanted them—children wasn’t exactly the _point_ , anymore. Maybe it never had been, not for Gladys, at least.

For her, it was about wanting to _fix_ her body, make it _work_ , so that she stopped feeling sick and sad and scared and unpredictable. She was frightened that her periods were so few and far between, she was frightened of what long-term implications that might have, she was frightened of the cysts on her ovaries bursting someday, she was frightened of the hormonal disregularity doing terrible things to strain her body long-term. These were legitimate fears, really, and it was frustrating to go to Science and be told ‘there just isn’t enough research done into that, because most people are concerned with superficial fixes, if their doctors even notice something is wrong at all’. She was on so much medicine for her anxiety, and yet still worried, and had panic attacks if she had even one cup of tea too many at breakfast.

Tom wanted it to stop, and he figured he’d pretty well do anything to make it stop; the problem was that there wasn’t anything to do about it, because hormones were both very powerful and very unknown parts of the human machine. It was frustrating being a willing knight to a willing princess screaming for help when you could neither see nor fight the wicked thing holding her captive, and therefore were helpless to rescue her, as the both of you wanted.

‘I love you,’ was how Tom condensed all of this anger, all of his frustration, into something productive to say. Gladys had put on some of her favourite music to cook by, and danced over, kissing him on the head before dancing away again, petting the cat, who was sitting on his special stool for just that reason.

Tom watched, and determined that he _would_ save his princess; there had to be a way, he did not accept that misery was her lot. Medical science could do so much, had already cured polio and most sexual diseases. Why couldn’t the great powers of medicine turn their attention to omega health more often? It was criminal.

Tom ate dinner quietly, after asking Gladys questions meant to get her talking, get her thinking about something that made her happy, confident, and passionate. She liked to be angry sometimes, to complain about injustices. Tom loved hearing her get fired up about things, it was very cathartic.

He arrived at Lady Madison’s just on time, and the Lady herself opened the door for him, smiling and letting him in. She had a charming smile, when she wanted it to be charming; usually it was merely intimidating. She was the sort of Alpha that Tom was: cool and poised, rather than warm and forceful.

‘What’s the matter with Gladys, my dear?’ she asked, for it wasn’t obvious, of course; it was only apparent to friends that Gladys and Tom were struggling with having a baby. There were a thousand things that could mean. Tom explained to Lady Madison the nature of the problem, and found his friend and neighbour smiling and putting her hand on the table between them.

‘Oh, I know exactly whom you should see,’ she said, getting up, her very high heels clicketing on the stone floor of the bakery. ‘Wait a moment, I’ll get the card from my rolodex…’

She came back with a business card of good thick stock, that read:

**_Parker Sexton_ **

_Specialising in Holistic Reproductive Health_

_Omegas Only_

_20156 Bixby Avenue, Suite 900 | AMherst 9390  
_

‘I have on good authority that they’re a marvellous doctor, very gentle and kind,’ Lady Madison said, ‘though,’ she added, dark eyes twinkling a little, ‘they are a little hard with Alphas, until they know you.’

‘I’d rather that,’ Tom said. ‘Thank you for this, Lady Madison. Do you know what sort of things they might try?’

‘I know that Tamara Keenes’ child went to them a few months ago, after no doctor would listen, and Sexton helped him become… well, you must know little Mel Keene.’

‘I remember, yes.’ Tom said. ‘I’m so glad they finally found some help for Mel.’ Little Mel Keene had started puberty far too early, and was distressed about all the teasing and bullying, as much as he was distressed at, he had confided to Tom, getting the ‘wrong puberty’. ‘Now I know to point others that way, if they ask.’

‘And Gladys.’

‘Of course Gladys,’ Tom said. ‘But I’m a little hesitant to make an appointment for her without talking to this doctor first.’

‘I know that look; how many doctors have you been to already?’

When Tom told her, she shook her head. ‘I wish you’d told me sooner; would have saved the poor love a lot of heartache.’

‘You’re really confident for someone who never met them.’

‘I haven’t needed to; but if I ever do, I’m taking my omegas to Sexton. It isn’t just the Keenes, ask around at the club if you like—that’s where I got the card in the first place, from Dr Kildaire. You remember her?’

‘Distinctly,’ Tom said, smiling. Kildaire was their resident medical fetishist; it helped that she, herself, was a surgeon. She offered her services to any who wanted to explore the more dangerous kinks in that field, and Tom had watched her demonstrations more than once with complete fascination. She certainly knew her stuff when it came to manipulation of the genitalia and attached organs, it was certain she’d not recommend anyone less than skilled.

Tom went home with a little spring in his step, though he came in quietly, the lights all out save for the little orange ghost light in the foyer, and the porch light that illuminated their street number through the glass shade. He slid into bed next to Gladys, who hummed and scooted back against him. Tom obliged her wiggling hips, his own cock easily waking with the stimulation. With gentle, slow expertise, he slid his cock home inside her warm cunny, and both of them sighed as they fell asleep. Tom knew the gentle, warm stimulation of her cunny would keep him hard and wanting, and give him very specific dreams.

Gladys liked to warm his cock, liked to feel the evidence he’d had a wet dream inside of her, liked to know he’d come inside her while they were both asleep. Sometimes, Tom would wake before her, and gently tease at her clit, gently slide bigger and bigger toys inside her, or stretch her arse with inflatable plugs, or pump her clit, while Gladys stayed asleep (or pretended to). For now, however, it was enough to warm his cock. She felt a little thrill, imagining if that was _all_ she was supposed to do, if he was some decadent fantasy prince of an Alpha, and she merely his cock-warmer omega. Sometimes, she very much liked that sort of fantasy.

She tensed without quite meaning to, and Tom hummed, low and raspy, like a purr, holding her closer, one hand on her belly, the other sliding up to her chest, stroking the flat, sensitive plane of it. It was Tom who had gotten her to love her chest again, and Tom who was the only one to know her body post-surgery. Gladys hummed back, her voice about as low as his, but much smoother, and kept tensing. He stayed very still, but she felt him growing inside her, until his knot was burgeoning; through it all he kept so very still, and Gladys loved that best of all, though the hand on her belly crept slowly, surely down, smoothing over the shorn-smooth curve of her mons, finding the overlarge clitoris, which was barely hidden between her labia. He stroked it just so, knowing her well enough by now, and both remained as still as they could, liking the game of mutually feigning sleep.

Gladys felt him come inside her, and the warmth made her feel safe, and wanted, and loved; she took a little longer to come, but Tom knew she liked best to simply stay aroused, and gently teased her for some time, before stilling, his sleep genuine, this time. Gladys drifted off with pleasant frustration warming her hips. Whatever he’d learnt from Lady Madison, she thought, she’d find out tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AMherst 9390 makes use of an American telephone exchange name, which was how phone numbers were written down in most of the 20th century. The first two capital letters correspond to numbers on a telephone keypad.

**Author's Note:**

> I have [a discord server](https://discord.gg/uVJR3ad), come on by and see me sometime!


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